Epimedes' Angel
by Weaver of the Tangled Web
Summary: The owner of a quaint little herb shop finds a unique object amongst the trash in an alleyway... Rated for future violence and sexuality.
1. Author's Explanation

Epimedes' Angel

_An Explanation._

This is a FanFic for Phantom of the Opera, set in an alternate reality akin to a fantasy novel's world. The Erik in this story is something of a mixture of Eriks of the past—three-quarters of his face is marred, not only the right half, though the rest of him is (in my head) relatively the same as the Gerard Butler version. His past is that of Leroux's or Kay's version, as is his relationship with Christine, only the end of his days at the Garnier are more along ALW's lines.

Things will be a tad confusing, in the beginning; it is seen from Anevyren's point of view (a character of my own making), and seen with an Erik who refuses to speak. Therefore, his origins, how he got from the Garnier to her doorstep, and other such things, remain largely a mystery, explained only through hints and metaphors.

This is, and is not, an E/C fic. It originated in a complaint (made by myself) against writers of EOW fics, that they were never written in a believable fashion. I was (and am) of the personal belief that Erik would never have been as blissfully happy with another woman as many FanFic-writers represent him as being. Then, a friend made the comment—"Why not write it like you think it would be, then?" I happened to think this was a brilliant idea, and thus that is what I have done.

The reason I say it is and is not an E/C fic is relatively simple, though somewhat complex—bear with me! It is not an E/C fic, because Erik does not end up with Christine (I know, I hate it too, but again, bear with me!). However, in his heart, that is the only woman he is with—and, I'd like to think, in her heart as well. So, Christine is his only "one true love"—but, she is not his "one true" partner. Therefore, it is and is not an E/C fic.

Sorry for the lengthy explanation, but I felt it was pretty imperative.


	2. The Cradle

Chapter 1

She rose far before the sun, waking as if on cue, though no device served as her notification of the time. She seemed possessive of an inherent sense of when to awake, for the very moment that her eyes opened was the very moment she opened her eyes on any other day, as she had for seven years and would continue to do until she no longer ran the Epimedes' Cradle.

Slowly she sat up, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Black hair that fell nearly to her knees—for not once since her birth twenty three years ago had it been cut—was already being gathered into her hands and draped over her shoulder; by the time her chilly bare feet had carried her to the vanity in the far side of the room, it was in perfect position for its morning brush. Once cleared of tangles, nimble fingers drew it back and braided it, allowing it to fall in a singular long plait between her shoulder blades.

The wardrobe was now turned to. Sleepy grey eyes surveyed the act, as calloused hands drew forth a brown linen shirt, and a dark green rough-sewn skirt. These draped over her arm, she turned and headed out the door, down the hall, and into the bathroom.

When she stepped out nearly twenty minutes later, her pale skin sparkled, her hair glimmered, and her eyes were, instead of blurry and bloodshot, gleaming with the prospect of a new day. Her breakfast consisted of an omelet, and a glass of milk; it was devoured in no hurry, for part of the reason she arose so long before true daylight was to allow herself ample time to accomplish all tasks, before heading into town.

The dishes she washed and put away, before stepping into the grey mist that heralds the dawn. A shawl was wrapped protectively around slender shoulders, and gripped with those spidery hands. Booted feet hopped playfully from stepping stone to stepping stone, into the midst of her vast herb and flower garden—supplies were running low at the shop. Being in the middle of town, there was not enough room for the Cradle to have a garden of its own, so she had planted a large one in the back yard of her cottage, almost a half-hour's walk outside of town.

The needed herbs were carefully picked and placed within a basket, which was then hung upon her left forearm. Smiling brightly, she hopped once more from stepping stone to stepping stone, until reaching the gravel road that led into town. As she walked, she began to hum a little tune to herself.

By the time she had reached Carlington Street, the cobblestone road upon which sat the crisp white Epimedes' Cradle, the sun had begun to grace the storefronts with its golden rays. Still humming, she approached the green wooden door, drawing a golden key from her skirt pocket and slipping it into the lock. As the door swung inwards, she was greeted by the happy chime of her bell.

"Good morning!" she sang out to it, grinning to herself as she shut the door again, lit a few lamps, and headed into the work room in the back. There was still much to do before the shop could be opened for business—Anevyren kept in steady supply a daily offering of "free samples" of new attempts at baked goods, made fresh daily; there were still herbs to be crushed, dried, placed on display, arranged in pretty fashions... She shoved it out of mind. Thinking of work only made it seem overwhelming, after all—it was much better to just take the tasks one at a time, she told herself, as she tied on her work apron.

She grabbed the handle of a large tub, and dragged it towards the back door, and out to the well pump. It was dropped down beneath the spigot, and she turned to the pump with a sigh. It was, by far, one of the more irritating morning chores. It had taken nearly a year for her muscles to stop aching from pumping the water, and yet another two before she could do it with any real ease. Memories, more than anything else, kept her from relishing the task.

Barely had her hands wrapped around the handle, when her eyes picked out, lying amongst the trash in the alleyway, the form of a man. Fear was her first instinctual reaction; while the city did not see many of the homeless, those that it did were not prone to kindness. The man certainly looked as if he'd seen a hard time; his clothes were sooty and caked in dirt; his face was smeared with mud... Pity now took firm hold of her heart. Was that blood amongst the grime? Unconsciously, she began to walk towards him.

His leg stirred, and she froze. "S-sir?" she called out, in a small, sweet voice. "Are you.. alright?"

Only a moan served as a reply.

_This is foolish, _she told herself, as she began to turn away from him. Already she could hear John unlocking his neighbouring floral shop; the morning was slipping away, and she was wasting her time on a degenerate!

Firmly, she turned away from the prone figure, and marched back to the pump. The tub was filled halfway with water, and she carried it back into the shop. She had just begun to fetch soap with which to wash her hands, when her soft heart got the best of her. With a sigh, she returned to Carlington Street, went next door, and knocked on the still-locked yellow door of John's shop.

He opened it, and a smile broke out on his round face. "Annie!" he greeted her. "Do you need something?"

Anevyren pressed her fingers against her temple. "John, this is going to sound _utterly _ridiculous, but..." Already, he was moving into the street, brows furrowed. "There is a man, in the alley—"

"Is he causing a problem? Do you wish for me to call the—"

"No, no!" she protested quickly. "He's hurt, I think, and..."

A warning tone slipped into the older man's usually cheery voice. "Annie, it is not safe to meddle in the affairs of the type of men who find themselves in alleyways."

"I know," she insisted urgently, hand already grasping his own and pulling him into the street. "That is why I came to get you, John—I want your help. The poor man is clearly hurt... Please, John." She gave him her best puppy-eyes, and with a sigh, he gave in.

"Very well, show me to him..."

She led him through the Cradle and into the back alley, pointing to the man's form. "Help me carry him inside?" They moved forwards together, she taking the man's feet, John taking his shoulders. Anevyren was amazed to find how light the man was; he looked to be over six feet in height, but his weight could not have been much more than her own.

They heaved him up onto her counter, though he draped off the edges by nearly two feet.

"Do you want me to stay, in case he wakes and is.. violent?" John asked cautiously.

"No," she replied, as she grabbed one of her slicing knives and slipped it into the strap of her apron. "I can look after myself."

He lingered a moment more, before sighing and wandering out. "I'll check back in with you in an hour," he called, moments before the _ding _announced his departure.

Anevyren grabbed a rag, dipped it within the tub of water, rung it out, and turned back to her new obligation. "Let's clean you up a bit, then." She advanced on him, slowly rubbing away the mud on his face. So thick was its placement, so specific its location, that it seemed to be almost a purposeful application. Only his forehead and the right half of his face had been muddied; the left cheek and jaw remained untouched.

His nose looked nearly shattered; she could only assume that was where the blood had come from. She patted gently at it with the rag, attempting to clear away some of the mud to allow her a better glimpse of the injury. What she discovered was distorted flesh; the right nostril appeared almost to melt into the flesh of his cheek.

With a frown, she began to clear away more of the mud, eyes widening in shock as more and more of the right side of his face was revealed, and then his forehead. The flesh was ruined there, and not by any external source; she had read of the occasional deformation of skin, a birth defect, but this was far beyond what she'd heard of in the past. It was almost ghastly, though as a woman accustomed to working with the badly injured, her stomach for such things was far stronger than the average person's.

His eyelids fluttered, and suddenly opened, to reveal flame-like yellow eyes. He stared at her for only a second, before roaring and scrambling away from her. He immediately tumbled off of the counter, and hit the floor running—or rather, crawling frantically, towards the only doorway he could see. This, of course, led into her shop, where he crashed into a display table and sent several vases of flowering herbs tumbling to the ground.

She rushed after him, hands held up as if calming a wild beast—and, truly, she was beginning to believe that she was doing exactly that. "Be still!" she urged, as gently as she could while being loud enough to be heard. "It is alright! I mean no harm!"

He was cowering in a corner now, one hand covering the asperous flesh of his face—or, as much of it as he could manage to. Slowly, she moved towards him, the rag still held in one hand. "It is alright," she repeated. "I only want to help you..." She neared him, and crouched down beside him. He flinched away from her, but she took his chin firmly in her grasp, and turned it towards her. "Please, let me help you."

His gaze regarded her for a long, questionable moment, before finally he gave a slight nod. The rag was pressed against his upper lip, attempting to catch the new stream of blood flowing from his nostril. "Your nose is broken," she told him in a gentle monotone. "The rest of you appears well enough, except for a few bruises, though you're in need of a bath, new clothes, and several good meals." One shaking hand took the rag from her, and held it beneath his own nose. She smiled a little, and stood. "Looks like the Cradle will be opening late today," she murmured.

He stood as well, watching her expectantly. He looked almost comical, with one hand attempting to cease the flow of blood, and the other pressed helplessly against the side of his face. She suffocated the desire to smile, and gestured him to follow her. "The town's not yet alive," she assured him, as she put out the lamps, took off her apron, and fetched her shawl. "No one will be about to see you." He visibly relaxed at that, and she led him into the street.

It was a long walk home, that morning, having to constantly turn back and convince her mute companion to continue following her. Only a few feet into the street, he had taken her shawl away from her and wrapped it around his head, leaving only the left eye and a bit of the left cheek visible. Each person they encountered, he lowered his gaze and stepped close to her shoulder—or, as if to change up the routine, he would occasionally dash to the side of the road and retreat into the early-morning shadows.

By the time they had reached the cottage, she was very near to allowing him to remain outside in the cold. She led him within—and, by some miracle, he followed—and to the kitchen. "I haven't got any clothes for you," she told him. "I'm afraid there's not much call for men's clothing around here. I'd ask John, but.. well, his clothes would _hardly _fit a man your size."

He did not seem to be listening. He was staring listlessly at the floor, head cocked slightly to one side.

Anevyren hesitated. Did she dare leave him here alone? There was not even a guarantee that he would remain for five minutes after her departure. Of course, she realized, her presence there seemed to make little difference to him. With a sigh, she turned away from him. "Yes, well then. Help yourself to the pantry—you could certainly use the food. When I come home, I could.. attempt to set your nose, if you wished?"

Silence.

She barely suppressed a second sigh. "Well, I must be off. I'll try to find you some clothes, on the way home." With one final look—met only by further silence from the stranger—she turned and departed from the cottage once more.


	3. Name The Face

Chapter 2

Her stomach sick with dread, Anevyren made a final check of her belongings—key, money, clothes for the stranger, leftovers for John... Where was her shawl? Of course—the stranger had never given it back. Hastily, she locked up the Cradle, and jigged down the front steps. She nearly ran to John's shop, rapping her knuckles loudly against the brightly-painted wood. He opened the door, greeting her with a similarly-anxious face.

"How is he?" he asked immediately, as she stepped into the warm aroma of the floral shop.

"I do not know," she admitted, as the basket containing her sample leftovers were handed to him—each day, she brought him that which her customers did not take. "I left him at the cottage, this morning."

He started. "You left him in your home? I thought you wiser than this, child!"

Anevyren flinched away from his harsh tone. "I could not leave him in the Cradle," she argued weakly. "There was nothing else I could do with him!"

John set aside the basket, fetched his coat, and turned out the lamps within the shop. "Come," he said gruffly, again lifting the basket and ushering her towards the door. "I'll walk you home."

Together they set off in silence, neither of them with the nerve to speak to the other. Their steps were quick, for anxiety urged them into a haste that neither would normally have indulged in. As a result, they reached the cottage in nearly half the time it usually took Anevyren. She walked up to the door, John half a step behind her, and opened it. "Sir?" she called into the darkness. "I am home... Are you here?"

John followed her within, shutting the door behind her. Both of them wandered into the kitchen; her shawl lay discarded carelessly upon the kitchen table, but there was no other sign of the man's presence. "I am not surprised," she murmured. "He did not seem very interested in remaining."

John was shaking his head. "What if he returns, Annie? He could be some sort of lunatic! He knows where you live, now—he could kill you in your sleep!"

She could not help but laugh as she folded the shawl, and draped it across her arm. "John, don't be foolish. He was just an unfortunate fellow..." _More unfortunate than you know, _she added silently, for she had not the heart to tell anyone about the man's face. She could only surmise that it had somehow resulted in his current position—there were, after all, a small few people in the world who would not see fit to shy away from such a terrible visage.

"An 'unfortunate fellow' who could be intending to take out his rage on you, Annie," he growled.

She moved into the sitting room, dropping the clothes for the stranger down onto the sofa. She had gone to buy them during her lunch—and, it seemed, had sacrificed a pretty penny for no reason. Perhaps some other too-tall, too-thin man would wander into her life one day? "There's nothing to worry about, John," she told him in a tired voice.

"I think I should stay the night," he said, as he moved to stoke a fire. "I could go home to Hazel to tell her, and be back before the hour was past."

Again, she laughed. "Don't be foolish!" she repeated. "I will be perfectly alright."

He shook his head. "I never liked you staying out in the country on your own, Annie—and definitely, not tonight."

Her brows furrowed. "John, it isn't.. appropriate, you staying with an unmarried girl. Go home to Hazel and the children."

John advanced on her, face growing near-furious. "Annie, I'm staying!" he bellowed. "And that is _final!_"

Barely had such angry words slipped from his throat, when a dark shadow separated itself from the inky blackness of the hallway and threw itself onto him, driving him backwards and against the wall next to the fireplace. Anevyren recognized the stranger, and she immediately rushed forwards. The man's powerful forearm was pressed against John's throat, successfully pinning him between body and wall. The distorted flesh was no longer visible; a hood had been sewn and stitched together, covering the man's head and face, leaving holes only for his eyes and mouth—like an executioner's hood.

From beneath those frightening holes, the flames of his eyes burned brilliantly.

"Stop it!" she yelled, pulling against his arm. "Let him go!"

That lifeless head turned to look at her, and studied her for a moment, before stepping back. It stuck an arm out between John and Anevyren, and as it moved, managed to push Anevyren back with it.

John fell to his knees, coughing. Anevyren wished only to run to him, to check on him, but that firm gaze daring her to attempt to move past its arm made her think better of it.

"Do you see, Annie?" John managed to sputter. "He is unstable! Dangerous! He's a madman!"

That head had turned back to John, the eyes narrowed. Questioningly, it again glanced at Anevyren. Realization dawned upon her slowly. "John, I don't think he speaks our language. I think.. he was protecting me!" She forced her eyes away from the stranger's, and to John, who was looking at her as if she had grown a second head. "I think you should leave now, John."

He stumbled to his feet, and towards the door. "I'll be back to check on you in the morning," he told her.

"I do not think that is wise, John," she warned. "I will be at the Cradle, tomorrow—speak to me then."

Grudgingly, he nodded.

"John?" she called.

He paused in his movement towards the door, and turned to look at her again.

"Please, don't tell anyone."

Without a word, he left.

* * *

Anevyren set the plate of food down in front of the stranger, and paused to watch him. Beneath that black cloth, he was looking at the food as if he had never seen such a thing before. She waved a hand towards it, and then towards him; when still he did not move, she lifted the fork and placed it in his hand. "Eat," she commanded firmly, before turning back to the oven to fix her own plate of food.

When she joined him at the table, he had set the fork back down, and was watching her expectantly. She lifted her own fork, and began eating. Still, he did not eat; he merely watched her in awkward silence. She finished her own meal, trying to keep her eyes away from him as much as possible, though she was painfully aware of his eyes upon her, and his utter lack of movement—and, thus, his utter lack of eating. She cleared her place, washing plate and fork, and then drew her chair close to his own. One hand lifted his fork, stabbed a morsel of food, and moved it towards his mouth.

Moments before it neared his mouth, he turned his head away.

Scowling, she reached up and caught his chin within the grasp of one powerful hand; the other, bearing the fork, now jammed the food into his mouth. The man reached up with his own hands and captured her wrists, pushing them away and holding them there. His grip seemed almost casual, and yet try as she might, she could not escape from it.

He chewed the food slowly, and then plucked the fork from her hand. He stabbed another piece of food, lifted it, and placed it within his mouth. Gracefully was it pulled from the prongs of the fork, and he appeared to relish in the chewing of it. Relief washed through her—and, she was surprised to find, a bit of pleasure at his apparent approval of her cooking.

His head turned, to look upon her hands—still within his grip. His eyes studied the somewhat purple-tinted hands—so different from the rest of her skin, which was as pale as marble—and then raised to meet her own, in question.

"From working with the plants," she explained in a soft voice. "It is a permanent side effect of my lifestyle. No matter how hard I scrub," she added, with laughter in her voice, "the color never quite seems to go away."

He watched her for a moment more, and then released her wrists, and turned his attention back to the food. She still was not sure whether he could understand her or not; with only eyes and the turn of his lips to go by, his expression was not in the least bit readable.

She shrugged, and stood, replacing her chair and wandering into the living room. The clothes she had bought for him were lifted and carried back into the kitchen. She set them on the table, nearby his seat. "They're not as fine as what you're used to," she said, with no amount of sarcasm—she had noticed, throughout the evening, that though his clothes were tattered and dirty, underneath the wear and tear they were of very expensive material. "They should fit, though, and that's what's important."

He finished his meal, and pushed the plate aside. The clothes were inspected, and his head nodded once.

"Come, and I'll show you to the bath." He did not move; she reached forward, and took his hand, and gave him a slight tug. She then made a "come hither" motion with her hand; that seemed to do the trick. He followed her through the house, his steps utterly silent. She led him to the bathroom, opened the door, and pointed within. He nodded to her, before stepping in and firmly shutting the door in her face.

Constraining a sigh, she went to her bedroom. The door was considered for a long moment, before slowly she shut it and slid the latch into place. She felt foolish—cruel, almost—but she had to admit that John was right. The man had shown carnal instincts, had proven that he felt no remorse at the thought of taking a man's life. Why should she feel safe sleeping, with his presence in the house?

She undressed and pulled her nightgown over her head. The braid was undone and her long hair brushed, before she realized that she had not made up the guest bedroom for the man. (In truth, she was not even sure why she had a guest bedroom, for not once in her life had a guest set foot in her home; tonight had been the first time even John had come. She supposed now that it was good, though, that she had thought to have one built.)

With a sigh, she set the hairbrush aside, unlatched the door, and padded down the hall and to the guest bedroom. A lamp was lit, and she moved towards the bed—only to find sheets already upon it, and a few objects scattered around. The stranger had obviously made himself at home, not only with her cloth (with which he had stitched himself the hood). She smiled a bit, and had almost snuck back out again, when she saw lying upon the bedside table a piece of paper. She lifted it, and looked upon it in silence. It was a drawing, rough but still good, of a girl's face. The girl was crying, and a sad smile was upon her lips. She was beautiful, pristine...

Anevyren carried it into the sitting room, and sat down in an armchair near to the fire. The girl's face was studied for a long time, all sorts of romantic daydreams flowing into her mind based upon it. Was she a mother? A sister? A wife? She certainly looked saintly enough to have wed a man with such a face; she looked almost angelic in her purity.

The stranger stepped from the bathroom and into the sitting room, looking at her. His hair was obviously still wet; it was soaking through the hood. His clothes clung to him, as all clothes cling to damp skin, and the skin upon his neck glistened in the firelight.

The paper was held towards him. "Who is she?" she asked, eyes wide. "She is very beautiful..."

He held the paper in one hand, and ran his fingers across the girl's face with the other. For a long moment, he looked down upon that drawing, stroking it lovingly.. before suddenly, stroking fingers caught it up and crumpled it, and threw it into the dying fire. Angrily, he turned, and vanished into the guest room. The door slammed.

Anevyren stood shakily, and eased down the hallway past his room. She entered her bedroom, and was just in the act of shutting the door, when a quiet moan met her ears. She paused, listening, as the moan turned to sobs, which quickly became angry but heartbroken snarls. Shivering, she latched the door, blew out her lamp, and snuggled deep into her bed.

The sounds of the stranger weeping eventually led her into sleep.


	4. The Language of Flowers

Chapter 3

Anevyren rolled onto her back, grudgingly giving in to that second sense that warned her of the time to awaken. It had been a late night, last night, and she had grown used to retiring early in the evening. As a result, her body fought valiantly against waking. Still, eventually, she could not argue any longer, and was forced to give in. Hands reached up to scrub her eyes, before slowly forcing them open. Bleary sight took in the hazy view of the dark ceiling, and that slightly darker splotch to the right... with the two oddly glowing flames...

With a scream, she scrambled away from the stranger, sitting so casually upon the edge of her bed. He jumped up as well, quickly retreating out of the room and disappearing. She stood in the corner of her room, hand upon her heaving chest, trying to catch her breath. When finally her terror died down, anger welled up in its place. The usually mild woman found fury taking firm hold of her; she charged out of her room and into the kitchen, where she could hear him moving around.

When she came around the corner, she was confronted with the vision of him, standing at one end of a table set beautifully with breakfast, a candle, and a vase of purple hyacinth. She almost objected, upon seeing that it was set only for one person, but again fell silent when she saw a dirty plate in the sink. She could not help but be struck by the thoughtfulness of his actions, and the utter politeness with which he bowed and extended one hand towards the table, before drawing out her chair for her.

She sank down, smiling despite herself. The stranger handed a fork to her, eyes glinting with humor, before retreating from the kitchen. The meaning of the flowers was not lost on her; it had long been a tradition to offer purple hyacinth in way of apology. Had he known she would realize that? It was not a difficult thing to assume; the shop, the garden—after all, it had been _her _garden that he had taken the hyacinths from.

Fearing to appear rude, she ate her breakfast, smiling to herself all the while. When she finished, she blew out the candle—for daylight had already intruded on the interior of her cottage—and stood to wash both her dish and his. As if on cue, however, he stepped in and whisked the plate away from her. Anevyren left him to it, as he wished, and went to the bathroom to prepare for another day.

When she came out, she found him standing at the window, looking out over her garden, once again appearing hopelessly lost in thought. She moved towards him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. He ignored her touch. "Sir?" Still, he ignored her.

Anevyren gave in, one hand reaching up towards the hood. "Your nose, sir... It needs to be—"

A hand whipped up to grab her wrist, squeezing so hard she feared for a moment that the bones would break. She let out a loud whimper; he pushed her away, and walked across the room to place the furniture between them. Clutching her wrist to her chest, she headed for the front door. "I want you gone when I get home!" she shouted, before tumbling out the door and into the street.

The crisp air struck her damp cheeks, and she forced herself to pause and get a hold on herself. She scrubbed at the tears on her cheeks, self-loathing welling up in her stomach. She had known better. She had acted foolishly. And now, like a child, she was crying—though, she soothed her ruffled pride by telling herself she was shaken more from the pain (far too reminiscent of her father's temper) and less from the actual rebuke she had received.

Shivering, she forced her arm down to her side, and began the weary journey to the Cradle. She had taken only a few steps, when there was a loud _crack_ of thunder, and a moment later, an icy drizzle began to fall on her still-unbraided hair.

* * *

Cold hands reached up beneath the dark veil, touching tenuously to the crooked, swollen, aching nose. It was bleeding again; he ignored it. Slowly, he lifted the veil, just enough to look upon the nose—that was all he could bear to see. It had become a horrible mess. Taking a deep breath, he reached up to press on its side. The resulting crunch sent a sickening tremor through him, and he was forced to back away; his vision was swimming. He reached for the well-used rag and pressed it beneath his nose, moving away from the mirror and into the hall. One hand flew out to brace himself on the wall, breaths coming in ragged bursts.

He reached his room, and sank down on the bed, eyes closing in an attempt to fight away the nausea. He could not do this on his own, and he knew as much. He would have to let the girl help. She was obviously some sort of healer—certainly not a doctor, but perhaps... She had seen his face, had looked upon it with no exceeding amount of horror. Why, then, did the idea of her seeing it long enough to fix his nose frighten him so badly?

His hand lowered the rag, the other hand raising to touch beneath his nose. The bleeding had stopped again, for now. Suddenly angry, he hurled the rag at the wall, and ground his teeth together. There was little he recalled of that flight from the Garnier; his mind had been far too lost in pain, lost in self-loathing, to remember much. There were flashes, however—of that night, and the several days afterwards. Days in which he had hidden, had starved, had frozen... Days in which he had attempted to return to the Garnier, for the mask he had been too distracted to remember to grab. That had been foolish—both the leaving it, and the returning for it. People had been waiting, expecting him to return...

Fingertips brushed against the bruise on his cheek, and angry tears formed in the corners of his eyes. He forced himself to stand, and wandered into the girl's bedroom. Bloody fingers pried open her drawers, rifling through her bureau, but coming up empty. He turned then to the wardrobe, flipping its doors open and searching through it. A pair of knee-high leather boots—riding boots, from the look of it—was pulled forth, and he then went to her study. The scissors he had previously used to cut the cloth for his makeshift hood were dropped into his pocket, along with the spool of black thread.

He clamped a needle between his lips, and returned to his bedroom to work. He could not bear to live underneath this suffocating mass of cloth any longer; a real mask had to be made.

So deeply did he pour himself into work on the mask, that he did not hear the door open. It was not until footsteps sounded in the hallway that he stiffened, thrust the mask and the supplies underneath the bed, and retreated to stand against the wall. The door to his bedroom opened, swinging back to cover his form. Those soft footsteps wandered deeper into his room, paused, and then he heard a slight weight sink down onto the bed.

Words reached his ears, though he could not understand them. The language these people spoke was one he had not heard before; a few words had been picked up on, but for the most part, he did not understand a word of what was said. This was no different; it was no more than a jumble of sound, now, and it did not help that the girl was crying.

He lingered for a long time, listening to her, trying to decide what to do. She was obviously distressed; was it his place to intrude upon her, in such a state? When several minutes passed, and the sobbing and the muttering had not died down, he pushed the door back gently, and stepped into the ring of light from the lamp beside his bed.

The girl saw him, and let out a little cry. It almost occurred to him to be hurt, until she leapt to her feet and threw herself onto him, arms going around his neck. Her sobs grew louder, and she was saying something—repeating it over and over again, furiously. She leaned back to look into his eyes, and must have seen the confusion there, because her face fell dramatically. Sniffling, she took his hand, and led him into the kitchen. Her spare hand lifted the purple hyacinth, and extended it towards him, a sad smile curling her lips.

His lips parted, and for a moment, he almost considered speaking. So heart-warming was her offering of apology, so kind her eyes... He clamped his lips shut. He had made a vow—on his last night at the Garnier, as he watched Christine and Raoul leave together—to never use his voice again. He refused to break it for a silly girl holding a purple hyacinth.

Still, he refused to allow that defeated look to remain on her face. He nodded, and took the hyacinth from her, offering a smile to show that he understood. She brightened considerably, and led him over to the chair at the table. Determination shone brightly in those eyes, now, as she sat him down and dragged the other chair around in front of him.

She made a sound, and then pointed at herself. He stared blankly at her, thankful that she could not see the blood rushing to his cheeks. He felt like an idiot, and the helpless look on her face did not make it any better.

This time, she pressed her hands against her chest first, and then very slowly said, "Anevyren." She tapped her chest several times, repeating the word. His face lit up. She was not saying a word, she was saying her name! Anevyren! No wonder the confusion—Anevyren was not a name he had heard before, though he supposed that would go hand in hand with a language he had never heard before.

She was watching him expectantly, hopefully. He nodded to her, and raised his hand to his lips. He drew an "X" across them, and shook his head. She looked somewhat disappointed, but far less than she had when she had believed him not to understand her.

Anevyren was talking again; he tuned her out. There was no point in listening to that endless, senseless chatter; the way she flowed through sentences as if talking more to herself than to him made it impossible to even attempt to pick up familiar words. It was easier to just ignore her.

Her steps were carrying her towards the door, a hand passing in front of her face in a goodbye wave. He barely had time to lift his hand as well, before she had vanished out the door again, with a much sunnier countenance than previously.

* * *

Anevyren jogged down Carlington, smiling brightly. Her lunch break was very nearly over, but it would have been worth it to be late, to have accomplished so much with the stranger. She still did not know his name, but at least he knew hers—and, at least she knew for sure that he could not speak her language. Still, they had flowers—it would help her along the way, make things a bit easier.

John's door opened, and he stepped out. "Annie!" he called.

She slowed down, and turned to look at him. "I can't talk now, John," she told him. "I've got to get back to the shop."

He stepped down from his stoop, and fell into step beside her. "I've got another half-hour; I'll come with you."

Anevyren bit her lip. She could not argue against his wishes without seeming as if she were attempting to purposefully avoid him—but, after all, she _was _purposefully avoiding him. "Very well," she said, in the cheeriest voice she could manage.

They walked into her shop, she taking the stool behind her counter, and he leaning against it. "How is your stranger?" he asked, voice deceptively mild.

"Fine," she answered stiffly, reaching forwards to rearrange the "Free Samples" sign. It tended to become more and more crooked, with each happy hand that reached within her basket.

John grabbed her wrist, and pulled it towards him. Instinctively, she let out a little cry—both because she was still shy of being grabbed, and because he managed to successfully lay his hands directly upon the bruise on her wrist. "From him?" he asked angrily, looking down at the bruise.

"No, I..." She pulled against him. "It's nothing, an accident."

His eyes raised, glowering at her. "I can see the fingerprints, Anevyren."

With one rapid yank, she managed to free herself of his hold. "It's nothing," she repeated coldly. "An accident." At the rising of his eyebrows, she attempted to further explain. "I.. startled him."

"And so he attempted to break your wrist." It was not a question, was rather a statement of disapproval. "And he is still there?"

She nodded. Silence extended for a moment, and then she attempted to shift subjects a bit. "We.. communicated, just a moment ago." Despite attempts to keep her voice casual, her excitement broke through. "He gave me a purple hyacinth, John, and made me breakfast, and—"

"For the wrist?"

She hesitated, and then nodded. "Yes, for the wrist. He felt terrible..." As did she, now, for guilt was welling up from deep within even from that tiny lie. She pushed onwards. "And he learned my name, sort of."

"Sort of?" he repeated dumbly.

"Yes..." Anevyren sighed a bit. "It seems that he is mute, but he made it clear that he understood that I was saying my name."

John opened his mouth to ask another question, but was forced to quickly shut it again when the bell announced the coming of a customer. "I will speak to you later," he said softly, before turning to merrily greet the customer, and then quickly departing.


	5. The Enchantment

Chapter 4

As on the first night, when Anevyren entered the cottage there was not a sign of the stranger's presence. Unaccompanied as she was, however, she felt certain that he would soon make his appearance. Assured thusly, she entered the kitchen, and put already-tired hands to work on preparing a supper. As she turned away from the sink (and the almost-pointless task of washing her hands)—intending to go to the pantry to discern what, exactly, could be used as a meal on this night—she was shocked to discover the stranger standing in the doorway. Not a sound had he made upon entering, but nonetheless, there he stood.

A hand was pressed to her chest, a breath of air sighed out in relief. "You startled me," she remarked—it somehow felt right to speak to him, despite knowing he had no idea what she was saying. The stranger bore a mask, now, instead of a hood—the front half of his scalp, both eyes, and the right cheek were covered in that black leather that looked far, far too familiar. A red satin ribbon, beautifully paired with the sheen raven color of mask and hair, secured the mask to his face—it, too, looked far too familiar.

With a frown, she excused herself, and wandered back to her room. It was in shambles; drawers pulled out, clothing scattered, the wardrobe doors open and the contents in disarray. Quick, concerned steps carried her to the wardrobe, where she found a ribbon missing from her finest gown—the only part of her father's riches she had taken with her, when she had left him in favor of the Cradle—and her riding boots also absent. Fingers curled against her palm, forming tight fists. Had he no respect for the property of others? She had taken him into her home—him, a complete stranger, and a near-deranged one at that—had offered him food and clothing and genuine hospitality, and how was she repaid?

Slowly she turned, to find the stranger standing in her doorway, looking almost sheepish. He extended a mass of cut-up leather towards her; when she took it, she was dismayed to find the feel of boot soles at the bottom of it. "If you had asked," she said wearily, "I would have given you what you needed. I could have found you the leather for this! You did not have to do _this_..." She held up the boots. "Could you not have just asked?"

Hands lifted up slowly in a helpless gesture; he did not understand anything she was saying. Still, something in those disconcerting eyes suggested that he knew he was being rebuked—no real sign of apology existed in them, however.

Anevyren sighed, and dropped the boots onto the floor. "I suppose I should clean up this mess, then." She turned away from him, and began scooping up clothes from the floor. Each article was carefully and neatly folded, and tucked away inside the drawer in which it belonged. She once lifted her head, and was pleasantly surprised to find the stranger folding whatever he could find, and setting it on the bed (for obviously, he had no idea in what drawer it belonged). He worked with a steady, almost surprising efficiency; she did not work long, before she found herself with little to do except to tuck away that which he had already folded.

"Thank you," she murmured as he walked out. There was no reply—but then, one was not truly expected.

When she wandered into the kitchen, she found him leaning over the sink, a dishrag pressed against his nostrils. More blood was dripping into the sink, and his legs appeared almost shaky. Concerned, she moved to his side, one hand falling to rest on his shoulder. "Please," she breathed. "Let me see?"

There was a long moment of hesitation, before he turned his head towards her. Slowly, cautiously, she raised her hands to the mask. "May I?" Almost miraculously, he understood, and with eyes closed he granted her a nod. Even more slowly, she raised the mask, and allowed it to rest upon the top of that glossy head of hair. The sight of his face was unnerving, she was forced to admit; that something like it could be done by nature alone was nearly painful to consider. Unusual though it was, it was not a thing that Anevyren Eraclid would allow herself to grow weak-stomached over; thus, with a slight frown of stubbornness and a reinforced will, she lowered her hands to rest upon that near-shattered nose.

She had not before noticed how the nostrils seemed caught in a state of half-decay. The nose was definitely there, though not nearly as much of a nose as any other man's. Pity surged up in place of disgust, and caused her touch to be all the gentler, all the sweeter. "I've got to set it," she told him gently. "It looks as if... You tried to do it yourself, didn't you? Tsk... You've quite messed things up, haven't you, then?" Without waiting for any sign of understanding, she pressed her fingertips to his nose, and forced it back into place as best she could.

To his credit, he withstood the pain shockingly well. Hands flew to her upper arms and squeezed tightly; eyes already closed were pressed even more so; the corner of one lip curled in a grimace; but no other sign of his pain was given. When finally he released her arms, she stepped back, and fished out a clean rag to hand to him. "The bleeding should—Oh, why do I even bother?" Speech was given up, and she turned away from him to find yet another dish rag, with which to clean the mess of blood he had left on her counter.

* * *

That evening, when she had finished cleaning up and putting away their supper dishes, she found herself quite alone. Relief threatened to come to the forefront, before she stubbornly pushed it away and almost forced that gap to be filled with concern. She wandered out onto her porch, eyes searching through the gloom for the stranger who was quickly ceasing to be a stranger. She saw a dark form moving in the garden and, hoping desperately that it was him, stepped down into the moist grass to meet him.

As she neared him, he lifted his gaze and offered her something of a smile, though it was a disconcerting one considering the streak of darkness that concealed nearly three-quarters of his face. Without waiting to hear her greeting, though she could not blame him for it, he turned and crouched before one of her plants. Nimble fingers plucked from a stalk a pair of purple and blue blooms, bringing along with it the vibrant yellowish-orange leaves that curled along the petals' sides. Standing, he extended it towards her.

Shocked, she reached out to take it from him. The Bohrreni's bloom was one used by prophets and seers—those wishing to see into minds, into future and past; and its leaves were toxic in the extreme. Did the stranger know of it, or was its plucking mere coincidence? As her fingers near closed over the piece of stalk accompanying that pretty flower and its leaves, he drew it back from her just a bit. Her eyes raised to find his, and then lowered again to watch as he separated the twin buds, and the two leaves. One fell into each palm, and was there squeezed and crushed within powerful hands. Using his fingers, he stirred the contents within, and then devoured that which lay in his right hand. The left hand, he pushed towards her.

All common sense forbade her next actions, but looking into his eyes she found such reassurance that she could not resist. Her hands, dwarfed beside his own, scooped the now-crushed bits of petal and leaf into her own palm, and then put them within her mouth. The taste was sweet, almost too much so, and flooded her senses, casting her mind into a brief mist. She and the stranger both fell to their knees, and she watched almost dumbly as he took her wrists and pressed her hands against his temples.

His eyes shut, and his head bowed. For a moment, Anevyren sat in dazed confusion; suddenly, her eyes snapped closed, her head arched backwards, countenance lifted towards the glittering moon, and her mind retreated from the world at hand.

Visions flashed through her mind, feeling of memories, though they were of a place she had never been. Dim, blurry glimpses of rich and vibrant interiors, of beautiful women and of dazzling chandeliers. Pain was an underlying current throughout, though sometimes overshadowed by anger—and once, by happiness, in a singular moment involving blonde hair and the sweet face of an angel. Red velvet—black cloaks—mirrors—the repeated snap of a noose that, though the name had never been heard in her ears, she recognized as a Punjab lasso—trap doors—a rooftop that brought on more pain that could be fathomed, all because of the two tiny figures clutching tightly to one another—nothing made sense, but all seemed to at the time. Ultimate pain struck her, and her back arched, a tiny cry escaping parted lips as a kiss met her forehead, as a woman and a boy walked away.

Cold snow, numbing her limbs—countered by memories of hot deserts and hideous architecture marring the golden sands. Many different worlds all melded into one little mindset; the face of a kind old man melted into that of an antagonist who refused to pay a salary; the angel's face became that of a wicked mother who ruled with angry vengeance; a beautiful cat, pushing its way beneath her skeleton's hands, grew to the size of a shaggy dog whose memory, though cherished, brought on a feeling of utter misery.

Angry men seemed such a redundant memory, and yet persisted; in each of the combined worlds, in each of the scenarios, they seemed to put an end to each. Two voices flooded her ears, drowning out the shouts of the men—one, sweet and gentle and perfect, singing on command like a well-trained songbird; the other, crooning a mournful tune, as the starved frame of the Angel of Music trembled on the cold wet ground with utter despair.

Her hands fell away, lungs gasping for air they had forgotten they needed. Eyes wide, mouth wider, chest burning, she managed to find the stranger's face. The voices were gone, but not completely—two sounds so utterly perfect could never be forgotten, not when they spoke of things even greater than heaven.

Shaking, she tried again to gasp for air, but found there was not enough to sate her need. The moon had climbed high in the sky and already begun its descent on the opposite arch; in this state, her mind could not grasp how much time she had spent kneeling in her garden with this man. Still there was not enough air for those dying lungs; panting, and finding it to be doing little good, she reached out and grabbed his neck.

A single word slipped from between those chapped lips, before the darkness took her and she slumped forward into his arms.

A single word.

_"Erik."_


End file.
